


Scent of My Lover

by faeleverte



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sex, M/M, Spoilers for AoS Season 2, all the fluff that there is to fluff, the comfort side of h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 15:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5933302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little bit of fluff that stemmed from the question "what <i>do</i> Clint and Phil smell like?" </p>
<p>And then porn happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scent of My Lover

*****

_Grass_

Green grass. That new-mown scent of a hot summer lawn. No matter where he'd been, from the frozen wasteland of Antarctica to the improbable hot stretches of the Sahara, he always smelled of rain-greened grass underneath. Showered and besuited and locked in an office all day, or soaked with rain from an Asgardian storm, the teasing hint of freshness clung to his collar and the small of his back, behind his knees and in the musk of his groin.

Phil tucked himself in harder and inhaled again, nose ruffling the hair at the base of Clint’s skull. Green grass and sweat and just a hint of Phil over the top. He ran his tongue slowly up the ridges of each vertebra on Clint’s neck, humming quietly to himself: salt and skin and the last traces of the soap from the shower they’d shared before falling into bed. Clint rumbled as he shifted from sleep to not-sleep, shuffling until he had rolled in Phil’s arms, pressing his face into Phil’s chest and heaving the covers over his head.

“Not getting up yet,” he mumbled, lips tickling through Phil’s chest hair. “Neither’re you.”

“It’s barely been two hours,” Phil said, fond and amused as he lifted the blanket with his elbow to look down at the top of Clint’s head. What little he could see of Clint’s blond spikes showed them to be rumpled, crushed with sleep and sex and gelled into strange shapes by sweat. “I don’t know what you think might happen.”

“Sleep,” Clint answered, wriggling again until he could force one arm under Phil’s waist. He pulled them tightly together and glared up with a squint. “Y’ should sleep more. Don’t get enough sleep trying to run this shit show. Go the fuck to sleep, Phillip.”

“I really should go see if…” Phil tried to pull away, starting to push the sheets off of himself to get up, but Clint’s arms tightened threateningly. 

“No you shouldn’t.” Clint wiggled lower in the bed, curling his legs around Phil’s thigh as he tucked his face against Phil’s stomach. The shadow of his whiskers rasped over soft skin to send an unexpected bolt of heat to Phil’s groin. “You told them to get you if anyone checked in or if the world blew up. No one’s come to get us, so everyone’s still out there doing their thing, and nothing went boom, and two hours of sleep ain’t enough for a goddamn cat. Sleep more.”

Really, there was no arguing with that kind of logic, so Phil twisted his fingers into Clint’s hair and settled down against the pillow. Surely he could afford _one_ night of sleep, since his boyfriend was over, and it’d been so damned long since they’d last seen each other. He carefully rested the connecting port for his robotic hand on his own side to keep it away from Clint’s body, not wanting to scrape Clint with the metal or remind him what Phil lacked. The world began to go fuzzy and soft and distant as dreams wrapped around him.

A fist hammered on the door to his quarters. 

“Sir! We have reports of a massive explosion in Guangzhou. I think this is something you need to see.”

From the region of Phil’s bellybutton, Clint growled a frustrated moan and licked the at the trail of hair above his pelvis.

“Fine.” Clint huffed a sigh and lightly bit Phil’s belly. “Okay, fine, _Director._ They can have you back, but only for a little while.”

“Sleep some more, babe,” Phil told him, gently petting through his hair, fingers catching in snarls. “I’ll be back soon.”

“When you kissed me goodbye after that week in Florida four months ago, you said you’d be back soon.” Clint released his grip on Phil’s body, rolling over and inchworming his way back up to the pillows. “I think we have _very different_ definitions of soon. You have three hours to deal with this problem, and then Ima drag you back here to ravish you some more, no matter what’s on fire.”

Phil tucked the blankets around Clint’s shoulders one-handed, carefully making certain Clint’s eyes were protected from the light. He flipped on a lamp and turned away to try to sneak his hand out of the box. He’d spent the previous evening trying to eat one-handed, keep the fake in his lap, keep Clint from looking at it. From looking at Phil with pity in his eyes. Phil fumbled the connection on the first try and took a deep breath to settle the shaking in his hands. _Hand._

“I can see you, Phil.” Clint rolled his head, smirking up from the pillow. Despite his playful tone, his eyes were dark and worried. “You flaunt that thing around everyone else in the damn organization, and then try to hide it from me. From _me_ , babe. You know I don’t mind it, right? Doesn’t make you any less you, and anything that’s you is more than enough for me.”

The arm slid into place with a muted click, and Phil tucked it close to his body as he looked back at Clint’s steady gaze. He opened his mouth to say something– defend himself, bite Clint’s head off for noticing; he wasn’t sure where he wanted to go. He closed his mouth with a snap and turned around to grab his jeans off the back of nearby chair.

“Can’t talk about that right now, Clint,” Phil told him gruffly. “I have an explosion to contain.”

“Okay.” The bed creaked as Clint rolled over, turning his back on Phil and the hand and the argument he clearly wanted to have. “Go save the world. And then we’re talking about it, Phil. Or else.”

Phil didn’t want to consider what _or else_ might entail. Four months without Clint’s warm eyes and gruff affection had nearly killed him. Being forced to go for hour without when Clint was finally _right there_ might be enough to stick him in the ground for good.

_____

Clint had been up long enough to eat and use up his remaining lives on Butter Brickle by the time Phil came bursting back into his quarters. He’d headed for Clint with hot eyes and the kind of determination he generally reserved for missions of Supreme National Importance. Clint found it hella hot, being on the receiving end of that focus. Also found it hella hot to be on the receiving end of Phil’s bruising, biting kisses and groping hands. Phil shoved him against the nearest wall and went to work removing Clint’s ability to stand up unassisted and his shirt with equal dexterity.

He’d just hit the point of fuzzy and happy, hard and wanting when he felt Phil’s hands, both the flesh and the hyperflexible metal alloy pull away from his chest. He sucked on air a moment as Phil’s mouth also pulled out of reach. That was precisely the direction Clint didn’t want Phil to go. 

“Leave it on, leave it on!” Clint heard the whine in his voice, and he wasn’t sure if he was more upset by the interruption in what they’d been doing or by Phil’s obvious self-consciousness about his missing hand. Phil’d been tied up for _hours_ making the world behave, and Clint was impatient to get them back to where they’d been before: naked, in bed, and utterly unaware of the world outside Phil’s quarters. 

Well, and sexually sated. There was much to be said for sexually sated.

“Come on, Phil, don’t...just leave it on.”

“What?” Phil looked too damned cute confused, and it _did things_ to Clint, half below his belt and half in his chest. “Leave on...Why would I leave the hand on, Clint? It’s not like…and I’m so awkward...Just feels so….”

Clint caught the gloved wrist of Phil’s prosthetic and lifted it to his lips. 

“Clint.” Phil tried to pull away, but Clint ignored him, nuzzling along the fingertips. 

The hand smelled of leather and oil, a hint of hot plastic from the wire casings inside, and gunpowder from Phil’s recent attempts to regain his off-hand shooting abilities. When Clint tucked his nose into the palm, the fingers curled against his cheek in a way that felt both familiar and new. Clint sniffed again, absorbing the scent of wire and oil into the mental file of The Way Phil Smelled: pecans and clean sweat; dry cleaning and unscented laundry soap that always smelled a little like flowers; leather and saltpetre; and now, hot plastic and oil. He got a little harder running down the list, and he dropped Phil’s hand to nose back in against the side of Phil’s neck.

“You gotta learn to leave it on for your _normal daily activities_.” Clint thought he did a fair impression of Fitz’s accent at the end of the sentence, but Phil’s snort suggested he wasn’t as good a Scot as he’d hoped. “And this is a normal activity, and it’ll be daily when I’m here. So.”

He bit gently at the tendon on the side of Phil’s neck, letting himself bite down harder in tiny increments, until Phil finally shivered against his chest, grunting quietly as he pushed himself further against Clint’s mouth. 

“Feels awkward, Clint,” he muttered when Clint released his jaw and went back to licking along the skin, inhaling the warm pecan smell of Phil’s skin and the linen scent of Phil’s dry-cleaned suit. “I don’t _like_ touching you with it. I can’t...it just doesn’t feel the same. Makes _you_ not feel the same. And I’m afraid that… It’s still too weird to use.”

“You don’t gotta touch me with it,” Clint murmured,. “Just leave it on, though. Get used to it being there. I don’t mind it, babe. I really don’t.”

“Why the hell’s it so important to you, anyway?” Phil sighed. His shoulders shifted restlessly, and he seemed more frustrated than aroused as Clint began to unbutton his shirt. 

That _would_ be telling, wouldn’t it, for Clint to answer. But…

Ten years they’d spent together, first as friends and then as lovers. A decade of work and sex and friendship and more sex in something like a relationship. So much honesty and half-hidden truths spilled out between the sheets and between kisses. Loss and recovery, aliens and mind control. Evil robot overlords and the death of bright-eyed young boys and the loss of Phil’s hand the year before. So many things between them, and Clint had learned, early on, to trust. He took a deep breath and pulled Phil against his chest by the open fronts of his blue dress shirt. Phil melted against him, and Clint set his chin on Phil’s shoulder, watching their embrace in the mirror across the room.

So Phil _really_ needed to keep wearing jeans: best butt in SHIELD, and those damn things put it on display, rear and center.

Wait. Phil’s rear was not the issue at hand, and Clint forced himself to slide his hands up until they rested in the curve at the small of Phil’s back.

He turned his attention back to telling Phil what he meant, on forcing himself to say the words they’d never traded, in spite of all the years and beds between them.

“I hate you pulling away to get rid of it whenever we’re right here,” Clint said softly. Phil hesitated, tensing, and then carefully wrapped both of his own arms around Clint, holding on hard. “I hate that you hide when you take it off, like you’re ashamed, like you’re afraid of what I’m gonna think of it. I hate that you only ever touch me with one arm when we’re m–” Clint stuttered at the rest of the thought but forced himself to continue– “making love. You kiss every scar on my body, but you won’t let me touch a part of you. I fucking _hate_ it, Phil. I hate that you won’t trust me to love all of you.”

Phil’s eyes, when Clint pushed him away away to look into them, had gone wide and bright, brilliant blue-grey swimming in tears. 

“You–” Phil choked slightly, swallowing hard before he tried again. He stepped back one more step, afraid of rejection or afraid of being close, Clint couldn’t tell. “You love me?”

The anxious little whisper set its claws in Clint’s heart and pulled. 

“Of course I love you, dumbass.” Clint gathered Phil close, turning to press Phil against the wall. He tucked Phil’s hands between them before wrapping his own around Phil’s shoulders, letting the bulk of his shoulders block Phil in, shelter him. “One hand or none. Zombie or never dead. Loved you forever, Phil, and if you didn’t know that, you haven’t been listening.”

Phil’s jaw went slack for a moment, eyes widening in shock.

“I thought...I’d hoped…I mean I kinda…” He swallowed hard and pulled his arms free to catch Clint by the hips, holding on hard as if to keep him from slipping away. 

Like Clint could drag himself away from Phil’s embrace right then, even if he got a call to assemble.

“I’ve loved you since back near the beginning.” Phil’s fingers, both the real and the synthetic, flexed against the waist of Clint’s sleep pants. His self-consciousness about the robot hand and thoughts of pausing to remove it had clearly left, and Clint felt himself grin wolfishly in triumph. “Certainly since Sicily. Probably Prague.”

“I know,” Clint answered, trying and utterly failing to keep the smug out of his voice. “Hell, babe. You’ve said it often enough. I’ve always known.”

“When did I say it?” Phil’s brows drew together, but Clint caught the challenging sparkle in his eyes. 

“When you got me out of Budapest.” Clint leaned forward and kissed the tip of Phil’s nose and then took a step back. Phil’s hands twitched again, squeezing harder, and then Phil took a step forward to keep Clint close. Clint took another step back with each example, aiming for the bed. “That time in Mexico City. The monkeys in Kathmandu.”

“You weren’t actually in danger that time.” Phil chuckled and pressed himself against Clint’s chest just as the back of Clint’s knees hit the edge of the mattress.

“Natasha’s favorite knife, Phil.” Clint caught Phil’s mouth in a soft kiss, holding on hard as he let their lips slide together, barely catching on the deep vee of Phil’s top lip. “I was in mortal peril.”

He leaned back, dropping onto the bed, gratified as Phil fell with him, half knocked the breath out of him as he landed on Clint’s chest.

“In addition to all that rescuing my ass stuff,” Clint shuffled until Phil’s hips slotted into the cradle of his thighs, “you’re here. You came back after you died. Came back to _me_. Found me again when I thought I was lost forever. Thought I’d lost you.”

“I’d...I hoped you cared,” Phil said softly. He reached up to tangle the fingers of his flesh and blood hand in Clint’s hair. His other hand slid lower, brushing over Clint’s hip, down his thigh, and cupping the back of his knee, pulling it higher over his own hip. “I wondered if you could. If you could ever...feel about me like I feel for you.”

They both fell silent for a long moment, exchanging soft kisses as they shifted against each other, letting the warmth and arousal build slowly. Clint began to feel a little too sappy and had to try to break the tension. 

“Well, I feel _something_ from you that I feel, too.” He grinned as Phil rolled his eyes. “I’d like to feel it a little _more_ , if you know what I mean.”

“Way to kill a moment, Clint.” Phil kissed Clint on the nose and pushed himself free. “However, back to the point.” He wiggled the fingers of his left hand. “You really don’t mind that it’s…”

“I’m going to mind a whole damned lot if you don’t get yourself naked and get back here right now,” Clint told him firmly. He grabbed the waist of his pants and tucked, stripping them down his legs and flinging them across the room.

Phil’s eyes darkened as he tracked his gaze down Clint’s naked body, and he swiftly swept his loose shirt off his shoulders. He popped the button of his jeans with his good hand, letting the leather glove of the artificial one trail through his chest hair. Clint nearly swallowed his tongue as Phil pinched at one of his own nipples, eyes going heavy-lidded at the pressure. 

“What say you get over here and let me have a little of that.” Clint scooted further onto Phil’s bed, letting his legs splay wide as he arranged his arms over his head. “See what it feels like inside me, maybe?”

Phil licked his lips as he swept his jeans and boxerbriefs down his legs. He stepped out of the pile on the floor and crawled onto the bed, shoulders flexing and hips swaying as he climbed up Clint’s body to catch his mouth in a hard, hot kiss. Clint arched up against him, wrapping his arms tightly around Phil’s shoulders and holding on. Phil relaxed down into him, pressing his body against the sheets, and they lay that way, exchanging kisses and air, gentle touches and soft nibbles. 

“If you’ve known all this time,” Phil began, pulling back to sit up on his heels, “why didn’t you ever say something?” 

He leaned sideways to grab the lube from the nightstand where Clint had placed it, hopeful, after they’d used it the night before. 

“Thought you knew,” Clint answered. He dug his heels into the bed, flexing his hips to entice Phil to get a move on. “Been saying it as well as I knew. Um, without words.”

“And there’s the flaw in your otherwise brilliant plan, Barton.” Phil bit his lip, focus narrowing as he drizzled a cold stream of lube over Clint’s dick and balls. “Perhaps we should rethink our mutual stance on not talking about feelings.”

Clint hissed at the chill, half choking on the groan that Phil ripped out of him as he peeled off the leather glove and pressed one metal fingertip inside. The metal was not cold, and Clint arched his back to try to press it further into himself. Above him, Phil let out a small puff of air that could nearly have been a whimper.

“You’re hot,” he whispered reverently. “I can feel how hot. I didn’t know that…”

His words dried up as he backed away and pushed in a second finger. Clint gurgled at the pressure, the firmness of the metal inside himself, and Phil gave a huff of laughter edged with hysteria. 

“I do love you,” Phil said. He met Clint’s gaze and smiled crookedly, pupils blown wide, face flushed. “Not just saying that because we’re...because I’m…”

His words faded as he slowly worked his fingers, stroking and pressing against everything that felt good. Clint let his eyes half-close, writhing down against Phil’s touch, tossing his head restlessly against the pillow.

“Don’t need the prep.” He finally caught his breath enough to growl the words. “After last night, I just...Need you in me, babe. Please.”

Phil leaned over him, bracing himself on the bed with his dry hand while he guided himself in with the other. He buried himself in Clint’s body in one long, slow push that had both of them shouting, entirely forgetting their agreement to keep things down to avoid advertising their bedroom activities to the rest of the Playground. Phil settled in with gentle, wet presses of mouth to mouth, and Clint sighed and relaxed. He wrapped Phil close with both his arms and legs, and reached up to stroke over the softness of Phil’s hair. 

“You shoulda known.” Clint ran his fingers down Phil’s neck, along his shoulder, and back to smooth over his scalp. “Love like this, it’s– Hnnnngh, damn you feel good right there– it’s always gotta go both ways. You shoulda known.”

Phil laughed softly against Clint’s lips and then rolled his hips, once, barely pulling out before he pressed in hard. Clint hitched his legs higher to get the angle just so and watched Phil’s eyes as they darkened further. 

“You gonna fuck me, babe?” Clint scraped his short nails across Phil’s shoulder. “Come on, Phil. Give it to me.”

Phil growled deep in his chest, shoved both arms under Clint’s back to grab his shoulders, and snapped his hips hard against Clint’s ass. Clint howled, fingers biting in harder as he tried to hold on, tried to make it last while Phil pounded him into the mattress. Phil shoved himself back to his heels, reaching down with his flesh hand to ruthlessly twist one of Clint’s nipples while he curled his other fingers around Clint, giving him a warm, slick, hard tunnel to thrust into. Clint began to shake, vision whiting out and electric tingles spiking through his arms, his back, his gut, and his balls. 

 

“Oh, god! Phil! Babe! I’m gonna...Gonna come. Fuck!” Clint locked his legs harder around Phil’s hips, back arching as Phil twitched, thrust, and twitched again before burying himself to the hilt and dropping over Clint’s body, holding on hard as he quietly cursed through his own orgasm.

Afterward, curling together in the sticky-musky-sweaty scent of sex and the comfortable warmth of their shared embrace, Phil began to laugh.

"Wha's funny?" Clint asked, kissing a patch of freckles on Phil's temple that he wasn't sure he'd gotten around to during intercourse.

"Forgot the arm," Phil answered, still chuckling, dark and satisfied. "Congratulations, that is the first time I've _ever_ managed to wear it without thinking about it."

“Well, good.” Clint nuzzled into Phil’s hair, taking a deep breath to enjoy the smell of him, warm and safe and home and _good_. “If saying the damn words is all it takes to make you forget, I’ll make sure to do it more often.”

“Smug isn’t a good look on you, babe,” Phil said, a smile in his voice that Clint couldn’t see as Phil tucked into Clint’s throat. “But I’ll let it go this time. Only because you love me, though.”

Clint laughed at that, letting the mattress and Phil’s arms cradle him close and safe and warm, sinking into the way the room smelled of Phil and Clint and Clint with Phil. 

“I do love you, babe,” he said, squeezing Phil into a tight hug. “All of you.”

Phil pressed a kiss to the round scar of a bullet hole just beneath Clint’s collarbone and sighed, deep and contented. “I love you, too, Clint. Now shut up so we can sleep before anything else blows up.”

“Yes, sir, Director sir.” Clint wrapped his leg more snuggly over Phil’s hip and settled in to sleep, “See you in a couple hours.”

Phil wiggled one hand free to put a finger to Clint’s lips, and Clint drifted away with the smell of pecans and leather, gunpowder and Phil filling up his senses.


End file.
